


More Noble

by wigglewyrms (KeyholeCat)



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bigender Morgan, Fell Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyholeCat/pseuds/wigglewyrms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"<br/>Possessing both cursed and blessed blood, Lucina struggles against herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to tumblr user moitoi-ryuko for being a neato beta for the first few chapters

Sleep has always served as a punishment for Lucina.

She hadn’t known her sleeping behaviors were unhealthy until she learned it from Morgan, who sleeps like a stone. She didn’t believe it at first; her mother had insisted it was normal. But as she grew up she came to realize that waking up every morning shuddering, sweating, her fists clenched tightly enough for her nails to cut flesh—that’s not what princesses do. That’s not what _anyone_ does.

When Grima awakened, the dreams only got worse. “Normal,” her mother had said. Lucina smiles bitterly.

It is a cool night, a welcome change from the blazing heat that had scorched her skin hours earlier. She’d hoped her Plegian blood would protect her from the heat to some degree, but instead it drained her energy even more than her racing thoughts. It was noticeable, too; just today, Laurent and Severa each lectured her on the importance of maintaining her health and keeping up with her beauty sleep, respectively.

Though it doesn’t make the bedroll beneath her feel any more welcoming, she knows they are right. Tomorrow is an important day in their campaign, so surely she needs her strength. Night terrors be damned, she must be at her best for what she hopes will be the final stretch of the fight.

Even so, she can’t help but trace her fingertips over the faint scars riddling her lips, self-inflicted mementos of her most vivid night terrors.

When she sleeps, she dreams of teeth and fire and beating wings. She dreams of her loved ones shredding into red ribbons. She dreams of poison clouding the sky and filling her lungs. She dreams of her mother caressing her daughter’s split cheeks, a mirror reflection of red eyes.

She dreams of enjoying everything she thinks she hates. But she never remembers it.

Now that she knows what she is, she doesn’t want to.

When Lucina finally closes her eyes, she thinks that, just once, she’d like to wake up with neither tears in her eyes nor blood in her mouth.


	2. The Tightest Grip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: Animal violence referenced in the first few paragraphs

Lucina takes her first life at age three.

It’s not a human life, of course. The long-abandoned dungeon she explores is host to a menagerie of rats and cats and things that are only slightly smaller than the tiny princess, but small enough for her to have the advantage.

She had run off with a small knife that had clattered to the floor during supper. It is only a dinner knife, but to her, it is a dangerous instrument, for she is never allowed near them when grownups are watching. But there are no grownups here, thus nobody to scold her or carry her back to her room.

She hadn’t expected the rat to squeal so much, but she doesn’t mind. She hadn’t expected so much red either—blood, she realizes, because animals have it too, just like Mother said.

She drags a finger across the rat’s bloodiest wound. _This isn’t so bad_ , she thinks as she draws dark shapes across the cold stone floor. She is alone in this dungeon, but for once, she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t have to suffer Frederick picking her up and dragging her away from everything that moves, and it’s better than waiting alone in her room for her mother and father to finish meeting with other grownups. The rats bite her a few times, and she nicks herself with the blade on accident, but it doesn’t hurt.  She wishes she could get at one of the cats, but they are fast and mean. She will catch up to them another day.

 

A week later, Lucina wakes up in the infirmary with no memory of how she got there. She hears someone worrying loudly and their skirts rustle with activity. Lucina peeps an eye open to see aunt Lissa fumbling with vulneraries, herbs, and bottles the toddler doesn’t recognize. She wonders why the healer doesn’t just use her staff like she always does. Maybe she lost it?

She hears Frederick’s voice and shuts her eyes tightly again, pretending to be asleep. If he sees her awake, surely he will find a reason to lecture her. In fact, it seems he is already babbling loudly about her.

“Are you certain there is no evidence of poison? No punctures from a small dart? Or shall I perhaps confront the chef about a possible—”

“I told you, Frederick, she’s just caught a bug! One of the visiting travelers probably brought it in. Poor thing... I don’t think I’ve ever seen her down for the count like this. She was fine earlier today, wasn’t she?”

“I thought so, but clearly I was mistaken,” he says gravely. Lucina feels aunt Lissa’s hand touch her forehead as he continues. “Had I but known she was so ill—” He stops at the sound of a sharp gasp. Alarmed, Frederick asks, “What is it? Did you find something?”

“Sh-she… her fever’s getting worse. She’s as hot as the sun! I.. I don’t… we have to...” Lucina experiences a sudden, unwelcome chill as the blankets are pulled away from her body.

Silence again. Familiar hands brush over her own. “Frederick…” Lissa begins softly, “how long has she had these injuries?”

Oh, the bites from the rats! They’ve healed into scabs by now, but Lucina still hides them from Frederick because she knows he’d fuss over them. She wants to tell aunt Lissa all about her adventures in the dungeons—Lissa loves a good story—but suddenly she feels very tired. How could that be, if she had just woken up?

“I…” Frederick’s armor scrapes against itself as he leans closer. “I don’t know. I wasn’t aware of any injuries. I’m afraid that she escapes my watch on occasion, so perhaps they appeared during that time.”

“They’re little bite marks,” Lissa mutters. “But I thought the cats kept the rats away?”

“Within the castle, yes. I believe the dungeons have quite the infestation, but those have been locked for years.”

“Have they?”

“Apparently not, if Lucina has been playing down there.” Lucina’s eyes fly open at the sound of a new voice. “It’s an old structure; it probably has a few holes in the walls.”

“Mother!” Lucina springs out of the bed as fast as she could, prompting a few startled cries from her caretakers. But when her feet strike the ground, her head feels like it got left behind. Her mother is fast, however; warm arms embrace Lucina before she can tumble to the ground.

“Robin,” Lissa whispers, relieved.

Lucina buries her face in her mother’s chest and smiles. When Robin speaks, it rumbles warmly against Lucina’s ear. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I think the rats might have given her something—she’s covered in bites—but I don’t know exactly what she’s caught. I can give her something for the fever, but until she starts showing more symptoms...”

“Frederick, go fetch Libra from the temple. Lissa, go find Chrom, tell him everything you know, and bring him here.”

“Yes, milady.” Frederick’s boots _clunk-clunk_ into the distance.

Lissa resists. “But—”

Robin’s voice softens. “Lissa, I know you want to help, but you are more experienced with wounds than sickness. Libra will take good care of her.”

“Yeah… okay. Okay. I’ll be right back!”

Lucina doesn’t see Lissa leave, but she imagines her picking up her skirts and scurrying through the castle. She giggles into her mother’s skin. In response, Robin weaves her fingers into Lucina’s hair.

“Oh, Lucina,” she says with a sigh that lasts too long. “What have you been doing, you silly girl?” Lucina mumbles into her mother’s breast. Robin laughs. “Here, let’s sit you upright, shall we?” At this, Robin lifts the tiny girl and leans her against the ornate headboard.

“I’m cold,” Lucina says.

“I know, sweetie,” says Robin. She sits on the bed’s edge and gently brushes her daughter’s bangs aside. “You’re quite sick, so your body thinks it’s cold, but it’s actually very, very hot. Can you be strong and wait until Libra says it’s okay to put more blankets on?”

Lucina doesn’t completely understand what that means, but she nods. Robin smiles. “Thank you,” she says. To Lucina’s delight, Robin shifts and sits beside her so that she can lean against her cozy cloak. “So,” says her mother, “tell me about these rats.”

Lucina tells her about the rats, the cats, and the broken door covered in ivy that she can slip through with ease. She tells her about the dinner knife and trying not to get the blood on her dress and chasing the fat orange tabby around the dusty cells. She isn’t afraid to tell her mother everything because Robin never yells at her, never grows irritated with her, and never sends her to bed early for bad behavior. Her mother is smart and pretty and Lucina wishes she didn’t have to spend all of her time talking to grownups about war.

“So these rats,” Robin says, “did you kill them because they hurt you?”

“No, it was just for fun. The biting didn’t really hurt, anyway!”

The hand brushing Lucina’s hair stops for a moment. Then Robin clears her throat and continues. “You’re a very strong, brave girl. But… sometimes things that are fun aren’t good things. Sometimes they’re even bad things.”

Lucina’s eyes widen. “Bad things? What do you mean?”

“Well…” Robin leans her cheek against Lucina’s hair. “Killing things might be fun, but other people might think it’s not a good thing to do. It’s not very nice, and it can hurt a lot of people.”

“Hurt them?”

“Hurt their hearts, I mean. How would you feel if I were to disappear forever?”

Lucina gasps. “No!”

Robin hugs Lucina a little closer. “There you are. It’s not a very nice thought, is it? Every person has someone or something they don’t want to lose, and it hurts to lose it.”

Tears well in Lucina’s eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m staying right here, tiny one. Don’t you worry.” Robin gives the girl another squeeze. “I’d like you to stay away from the dungeons from now on, though. Can you do that?” Lucina nods eagerly. “Thank you.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a time. The tears dry quickly, and Lucina wonders where her father is. Her eyelids grow heavier with every passing second.

“It’s hard when the things that feel good are bad things,” Robin says suddenly. “But you’ll find that doing good things doesn’t feel so bad.” Lucina says nothing, but furrows her brow at her mother’s words. Robin chuckles again. “I know that sounds confusing. You’ll understand one day.”

Lucina wants to say something, but whatever it is turns into a monstrous yawn. Robin smiles at the gesture and touches the tip of her daughter’s nose with a finger. “Looks like you need some rest! Don’t sleepwalk away before Libra gets here, okay?”

“I don’t sleepwalk!” Lucina protests, stubbornly fighting another yawn.

Robin laughs and rises to leave. “You never know!”

But as she approaches the doorway, she pauses. “Lucina… can you do one more thing for me?”

“What is it?”

“When Libra arrives… don’t show him your left hand, okay?”

“My left…?”

“The same side as your special eye. Show it to me?” Lucina lifts her left hand and waves it. “Yes, that one. Keep it hidden from Libra if you can, okay?”

Something about her mother’s tone makes her squirm in her sheets, but she nods. “Yes, Mama.”

“Thank you. Sleep tight, tiny one.”

 

A familiar pain greets Lucina when she next wakes. She uncurls her fingers and raises her hands closer to her face. Through her bleary vision, she sees tiny crescents in her palms. She hadn’t let her handmaids trim her fingernails the last time she was due, and so they’d dug into her skin while she slept.

Something interferes with the faint scent of blood. Her nose twitches at a flowery aroma. She thinks at first that someone left the window open, but when her eyes adjust to the light streaming through the glass, she glimpses a tall vase full of little white flowers.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? A hint of life in a room for the sick. Your father brought them in this morning.”

The voice comes from a tall stranger standing at her bedside. When she locks eyes with him, he bows his head.

“I beg your pardon. I should have announced myself.” He looks up to meet Lucina’s gaze again. “I am Libra. I’m here to care for you. Do you remember me?” Lucina shakes her head. Libra smiles wanly. “No, I suppose not. You were much smaller when I last saw you.”

“Leeber?” she asks, enjoying the sound of his strange name on her tongue.

He laughs. “Libra,” he corrects.

“Lib...ra.” Libra nods and moves to rifle through his satchel of healing items. Lucina looks over at the flowers again. “Where’s Papa?”

“He is attending war counsel, I believe. You needed your rest, so I asked him not to wake you when he visited.”

“I missed him!” Lucina cries. “I have to go see him!”

But when Lucina makes to leap out of bed, Libra lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, giving her pause. “Peace, child,” he says. “He will return soon. He is very concerned for you. Now, would you like some herbal tea? It will help ease the pain in your head.”

Lucina creases her brow. “I don’t have any pain.”

“No? Your skin still burns with fever. You must be feeling some of its effects.” Lucina shakes her head. Now it is Libra’s turn to knit his brow. “You must know that I am here to heal you, Lucina. There is no need to conceal your pain out of pride.”

“I’m not!” And it’s true; she feels perfectly fine, save for a bit of exhaustion from having just woken up. “What is a fever, anyway? I don’t feel sick, so is it a ghost haunting me or something like that?”

Libra laughs. “No, that would require a different kind of treatment. A fever means your body is overheating because it is sick. It is usually accompanied  by tremors and aches of the head.”

“Oh.” That must be why she felt so cold last night. “Am I going to die?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Though at first I feared you had contracted a serious illness, it appears that you are having a reaction to a minor infection.” He places a hand on her forehead. “Thank Naga you did not catch something worse. Rats often carry fatal diseases, but it seems She had other plans for you.”

“Plans? Like what?”

He moves his hand. “I’m afraid I don’t know. A monk’s duty is to worship and heal, not to know Naga’s intentions. I doubt even a manakete could know such things.” He places a cool, damp cloth on her forehead where his hand had been. Libra smiles as he continues. “I do know, however, that you and your family have long been in Naga’s favor. The mark in your eye proves it. It’s Her gift to all Ylissean Exalts.”

Lucina pouts and squeezes her right eye shut. “It’s not a very good gift. I can’t see out of it as good as the other.” Indeed, as she stares at Libra through her Branded eye, he looks fuzzy and dim.

But Libra is unperturbed. “Is that so?” he muses. “Perhaps She is testing you. Posing a challenge for you to overcome.” His gaze wanders to the vase of flowers. “Disabilities, misfortune, temptations… learning to live with them, or even to master them, is an important part of living.”

Lucina doesn’t know about that. But she doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t either, for some time.

Eventually, he sighs and closes his eyes. “Forgive me. I cannot claim to know what your Brand truly means.” As he speaks, he begins to gather his herbs, staff, and teacup. “Given your condition, I believe you will be healthy in a matter of days. But you must remain in bed until then, I’m afraid.”

Lucina groans.

“Patience, child. I’m sure you will have plenty of visitors to ease the passage of time. Ah, but before I leave, I would like to see where the creatures bit you. I’m afraid I was too preoccupied stopping the fever amidst your fitful sleep to properly examine them before. May I?”

Libra offers his hands to her. Lucina stares at the callouses and old scratches that cover them and puts her right hand between his palms.

He turns her hand over in his own and studies each wound (all of which were old scabs by now) with care. He mutters something about healing and scars, but Lucina is too distracted by how rough his hands are. She expected a healer to have warm, soft skin, but his are tough and worn.

“Milady?” he asks.

She blinks. “What?”

“I asked if you were bitten on your other hand as well.”

Lucina bites her lip. Yes she was, but he couldn’t know. She shakes her head.

Libra furrows his brow. “No? Well, I suppose if you are right handed… you aren’t hiding a bad scratch, are you? You won’t be rebuked for it, I promise.”

Lucina swallows and shakes her head again.

“Very well, then. I will return in the evening.” He tightens the ties on his satchel full of healing goods and makes for the door.

Lucina continues to chew her lip until the monk rests his hand on the knob. “Libra!” she blurts.

He stops. “Milady?”

She gulps and remembers her mother’s words. She knows she is being disobedient, but Libra is nice and she doesn’t like the unfamiliar guilt boiling in her belly. “Mama told me not to show you, but…” She pulls her left hand from under the sheets and thrusts it towards him. “Here.”

He raises an eyebrow, but returns to her side without question. “Thank you, child.” He drops the satchel beside him and gently holds her hand in his again, her palm facing upwards. “Ah,” he says, “here it is. This bite here is infected.” He rubs a stingy mixture over it, causing Lucina to yelp in surprise, but he does nothing to acknowledge it, instead muttering about reapplying it every few hours or days or something like that. “There we are,” he says when he is finished.

“It hurts,” Lucina complains.

“That means it is working. It will stop hurting soon. Now, let’s check for any other—”

He stops.

He holds her palm flush against his own so that the back of her hand now faces upwards. His eyes are fixed on the faint, pink lines etched across the skin.

“Libra?” she asks softly.

But he doesn’t seem to hear her. “It’s not possible…” he mutters, staring at the mark with a strange expression.

Lucina has a feeling that maybe she should have listened to her mother. She tries again. “What’s wrong?”

His eyelids flutter and he tears his gaze away to face her properly. But then, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I cannot say.” He raises his other hand and places it over hers, though he does not touch her. “Naga protect you. May you always be in Her light.”

She doesn’t know what he’s doing, but whatever it is hurts a hundred times more than the stingy paste he had applied. The back of her hand starts to itch at first, then grows into a steady, painful burn. Lucina whimpers and tries to yank her hand away, but he holds her wrist with a firm grip. “Stop it!” she shrieks. “It hurts! Let go of me!” But Libra only shuts his eyes more tightly. Words flow from his lips, but she can’t hear them. She tries everything, tries to pry his fingers from her wrist, tries to kick him away, but he is utterly unmoved. “Papa!” she finally screams.

He withdraws from her abruptly. It takes her several seconds of wiping her weeping eyes to see that he is packing his things again.

“When your father returns,” he says over his shoulder, “tell him I’ve gone to the temple to pray. I’m afraid I may not see you again for some time. Farewell.”

“Huh? W-why?” But the monk remains silent, instead hastening through the door. “S-stop! Libra!” Lucina cries as she jumps out of bed. When she reaches the exit, he is already near the end of the hallway. She shouts for him again, forgetting the unyielding hands grasping her mere seconds ago. “Libra! You said you’re coming back! Please, it hurts! Libra!”

He must not hear her, for he turns the corner and disappears. She starts to run. But the hallway spins, and then she’s on the ground with bruised knees. Her head feels like it’s floating away, but it must still be connected to her heart because she starts to cry, clutching her aching hand close to herself. “Mama… P-papa… Freddy…”

When Robin finally finds her daughter curled up outside the infirmary, her left hand is covered in tiny, bloody scratches.

 

 


	3. The Smallest Scars

Lucina hates the child from the moment she sees it. It’s shrill, fidgety, and ugly, yet the grownups can’t get enough of it. In her parents’ bedroom, she calls for her mother, but Robin cannot look away from the squirming bundle in her arms.

Lucina’s temper is set to burst, but Chrom’s hand on her shoulder gives her pause.

“Shh, Lucina,” he whispers, now crouching beside her. “Your mother’s very tired, and we don’t want to wake the baby.”

She hears a weak chuckle from her mother’s direction. From her position, Robin must crane her neck to see her daughter clinging to her bedside. “I’m sorry, Lucina. Do you want to see the little one?”

 _No!_ Lucina wants to snap, but before she can answer, Frederick steps forward.

“Milady, forgive me, but I do not think that is the wisest decision. Considering Lucina’s recent tendency to lash out—”

“It wasn’t my fault!” she shouts. Lucina hears an echo of shattering glass and her cousin’s agonized cries for help. She squeezes her eyes shut, and the memory disappears.

“Frederick,” Chrom says, “what happened to Owain was… very unfortunate, and Robin and I have taken responsibility for that. And I’m sure,”—Chrom gives a pointed glance at his daughter—“that Lucina didn’t mean to hurt him, but punishing her now for something she hasn’t done is not the solution.”

Frederick’s jaw tightens. “Yes, milord. I merely advise caution.”

Robin laughs again. “Trust Frederick the Wary to fear a toddler. Here, Lucina, come meet your baby sibling.”

Lucina cannot meet Robin’s welcoming gaze, so she stares at her feet. “I don’t wanna.”

She doesn’t have to see her mother to know that her lips press together so tightly that they disappear. It is a gesture of bottled disappointment that is becoming all-too-familiar with Lucina as of late.

Head hung low with shame, Lucina decides she wants her toes to burst into flame, so she keeps staring at them. “Doesn’t it have a name yet?”

“Well… no.” Chrom stammers. “We’ve been debating… er, we haven’t picked a good Plegian name yet. It’s your mother’s turn to choose one.”

“Plegian? Why?” She forgets about her toes and stares at the bundle in Robin’s arms like it’s something dirty; Ylisse has never been friendly with Plegia. Plegian names belong to evil kings and wicked warlocks, not to noble princes or princesses. But then, Lucina never remembers that half of her blood belongs to the desert.

Robin laughs, but it isn’t like her normal laugh. It’s sharp and mean, like how Tharja laughed the last time Chrom asked about Noire.

“Maybe,” says Robin, “if there’s an Ylissean royal with a Plegian name, people will speak of my homeland with a little less venom on their tongues.”

Lucina doesn’t know what venom is, so she looks to her father, but Chrom says nothing. He is not looking at Lucina or his wife, but at the baby. His brow is knit tightly, and she wonders if he’s angry. She decides to scowl at the baby as well. Maybe if Robin sees that both Lucina and her father are mad at it, they won’t have to keep it.

It doesn’t work.

“Morgan,” Robin states, “Morgan is their name. I’ve decided.”

Lucina hears a quiet gasp from her father. To her dismay, his expression has brightened significantly.

“Morgan,” he mutters, his eyes soft. “Morgan…”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Lucina blurts.

Chrom blinks, then chuckles nervously. “Oh, right. Er… maybe neither?”

“Or both,” Robin suggests. “Or one or the other. I suppose they’ll tell us what they are when they’re a little older.”

Lucina’s eyebrows arc in an exaggerated gesture, one up, one down. “Huh?”

“Well… in Ylisse, it’s customary to gender a newborn based on… um, certain parts. But they do things a little differently in your mother’s homeland,” says Chrom.

“Parts…?”

Robin scoffs and rolls her eyes. “It’s an outdated tradition, what they do around here. We don’t gender newborns in Plegia anymore. It causes more harm than good, if you ask me. However… we’re in Ylisse, so we decided to do things the Ylissean way. In your case, at least.”

“What’s ‘gender’?”

By the way Robin’s eyelids flutter in surprise, Lucina thinks she said something wrong. But then, her mother laughs and shakes her head. Lucina furrows her brow and waits for a real answer, but Robin only covers her mouth, as though to keep the weakening chuckles caged.

“Don’t mind her, Lucina,” says Chrom. “She’s a little tired from all the excitement.”

Just then, Lucina hears familiar heels clacking up the hallway. She gasps and turns to see Lissa stumbling into the room, arms full of what Lucina can only assume are healing items.

“Hellooo! Did I miss anything?”

“Aunt Lissa!” Lucina cries.

But when she starts to run towards the healer, Chrom scoops her up in his arms.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Let Aunt Lissa take care of your mother for a while, okay?” Lucina pouts, but can’t think of a suitable protest.

“Thank you for helping with the delivery, Lissa,” says Robin. “What with Libra being unavailable and all…”

“Unavailable? He didn’t—” Chrom cuts himself off, and his brows knit once again. Lucina wonders if they’ll start to stick like that.

“No, no, he’s safe. One of Henry’s crows showed up this morning with a letter from Libra saying they needed him on the battlefield. Short on healers, I guess, since I’ve been around here lately,” Lissa explains. “He apologized a bunch and wants to know if you forgive him.”

“Of course,” Chrom says quickly. “We—” He stops, his voice low. “They… need all the help they can get out there.”

There’s a silence that surrounds them. Chrom’s fingers are curled around the fabric of Lucina’s dress in a tight fist. Lucina doesn’t notice, however, for her eyes are trained on her mother and her knowing stare. Robin’s gaze flicks from Lucina’s wide eyes to her tiny, marked hand and back. Then comes the disappointed scowl again. Without thinking, Lucina pulls her left hand to her chest and covers. _I’m sorry,_ she thinks at her mother.

Robin sighs and closes her eyes. “It’s a better excuse than the ones he usually comes up with to avoid us, I suppose.”

Chrom opens his mouth to protest, but Lissa speaks suspiciously loudly before he gets a chance. “Anyway! I’m totally glad I could help out, Robin. Especially since it means I was one of the first ones who got to meet the baby!”

“Yes, it is nice to meet them as a family,” says Chrom, his grip on Lucina relaxing. The action apparently reminds him of the little girl in his arms, for he adjusts his grip and faces her. “Lucina,” he says, “are you sure you don’t want to meet Morgan?”

Lucina hates, _hates_ when her father looks at her like that, so full of hope and warmth that will turn into frustration when she says no. So she burrows her head into his chest and pretends that she didn’t hear.

“Doesn’t wanna meet Morgan? Is she sick or something?” Lissa asks.

Chrom’s voice is strained, and Lucina realizes she didn’t even need to say no. “Not sick. Just… stubborn.”

“Well, fine!” Lissa scoffs. Lucina hears her footsteps stamp across the room and towards them. “We’ll just have to take Morgan to her, then! Come on, Luci, say hello to your little sibling!”

Lucina, accustomed to her aunt showing her pretty or fun or interesting things, turns her head to peek at Lissa before fully understanding what she’s saying. To her horror, the thing in Lissa’s arms peeks back, its brown eyes round and curious and horrible and Lucina wants it to _get away from her._

“No!” she shouts into her father’s chest.

But Lissa is relentless. Lucina stops hearing what she’s saying, determined to burrow and hide in Chrom’s arms. She wants her father’s warmth and scent to console her, but instead they are suffocating, and his arms are more akin to bindings. Her mouth fills with a disgusting bitterness, and Lucina wonders if this was the venom her mother had mentioned. Chrom starts to speak, but she doesn’t hear what he’s saying, either. It’s all just noise, loud noise that reverberates through his throat and chest and into her huddled frame. She grinds her teeth, but it does nothing to stop the vibration of her bones, nor does it calm the boiling of her blood.

What she does hear is Morgan choking out the beginning of a cry inches from her ear.

Lucina screams and strikes them.

\--

_“‘Cina!”_

When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself sat in the center of a ring of tiny bones, jagged rocks, and dead flowers. The dungeon atmosphere is as musty and stale as ever, but there is a certain sweetness to it that makes Lucina think of her mother.

But of course, with the memory of her mother comes the memory of the thing Lucina had seen in her arms. She wonders what happened this time. Had she hurt anyone? Will they yell at her? She hugs her legs tightly and decides that she doesn’t want to see her parents ever again.

_“‘Cina! ‘Cina!”_

She sucks in a breath and holds it. That’s Owain’s voice. He must have been the one to wake her up. She hears him brush past the ivy covering the cracked dungeon door. She wishes she could kick her younger self in the rear for showing him the way in.

“Stinky!” he exclaims.

“You’re stinky,” she retorts into her folded arms.

“‘Cina!” he shouts, followed by an “Oof!” when he trips to the floor.

“It’s _Lu_ cina, dummy,” she says.

“Where are you?”

“Nowhere. Go away!”

“Found you!” Owain’s giggles echo through the hollow chambers for far too long.

Lucina growls and turns away from him. “I said go away!”

“What is this stuff?” She hears his stubby fingers fiddle with one of the dried flower stems lying about.

“Don’t touch it! It’s mine! This is my castle, and you’re not allowed!” She tries to snatch the stem from his hand, but it breaks in two, and several flower petals fall to the ground. She thinks about ripping it up, but resigns herself to put it back in its place with a huff.

“It’s smelly here. Castles aren’t smelly.”

“It’s not smelly! You’re the one who stinks.”

“Do not! There’s flies everywhere, so your castle’s smelly!”

Fuming, Lucina stomps back over to Owain.

“Fine! This is a smelly, scary castle and I’m the big dragon guarding it. So go away or I’ll smash you good!”

Lucina thinks Owain will stand his ground like when they play knights and dragons. But when he yelps and scrambles away from her, she remembers shards of glass and the boy’s unnaturally twisted limb.

“Stop it! Stay ‘way!” he begs, cradling his bandaged arm to himself. “Mama! _Mama!”_

On instinct, she reaches forward to grab him, but he flinches at her outstretched hands

“Shh, Owain, don’t—”

“Don’t bite me! I’ll go ‘way, okay? Don’t bite!” He doesn’t see the broken table behind him, and doesn’t know to step over the wooden leg in his path. He tumbles to the ground again, but doesn’t seem to notice, for his wide eyes are trained on the terror before him. Lucina stops in her tracks.

“Stop, I didn’t mean— don’t cry…” Her hands, meant to comfort the child, now fall limply to her sides. Her ears fill with Owain’s whimpering, and soon her own. “I-I didn’t mean—”

It’s too much. She had never meant to hurt Owain, but nobody knows or believes her. What’s worse, she’s run from her father and mother and auntie and Freddy and the thing that she hates, the thing that made her forget how she got where she is. Her arms wrap around herself as she sinks to the ground. She doesn’t even care that Owain can see her cry.

She thinks she never should have come back to play in the dungeons after her mother told her not to, and that’s why her parents had seen fit to replace her with a better, sweeter child. They didn’t want a daughter who pushed other kids down stairs or woke up with bloody crescents on her palms.

_They don’t want you. They don’t want you. You should run away._

Pain splits through her skull like axe. She squeezes it so it doesn’t crack in two.  

_Morgan will grow up to be a perfect, obedient child. You’re only going to get in the way._

“I d-don’t care,” she chokes. “Go away.”

_Wretched child. They’ll never trust you after what you’ve done._

“I didn’t d-do… anyth-thing! It wasn’t my—” Lucina tenses when she feels a weight leaning against her. She blinks and squints through her tears to see Owain knelt beside her, his tiny arms grasping her frame.

“Don’t cry, ‘Cina,” he mutters into her shoulder. “I love you!”

“W-what? You’re not… you’re not scared of me?”

“Mama said that if you see someone crying, you should hug them and say, ‘I love you!’ She says it’s the best kind of med’cine.”

“But—”

“If you promise not to push or bite, I won’t run away. ‘Kay?”

Lucina hesitates. She wants to say “yes,” but she knows that it is a promise she cannot keep. Family shouldn’t lie to each other, right? But if it’s the only way for him to like her, she guesses it’s better than him running away scared.

The dull pain in her head eases slowly. She wonders if Owain’s right about hugs. She wonders if she can fix his arm. Slowly, she returns his embrace.

“Okay. I promise. Just don’t run away anymore, okay?”

“‘Kay! I love you, ‘Cina!” He jumps up and down on the spot, but still hangs onto Lucina, so he loses his balance and falls onto his rear with another “Oof!”

Lucina giggles. “You didn’t even need me to push you! You’re just clumsy.”

“At least I don’t bite!” Owain pouts.

“Neither do I! Stop saying that.”

“But you bit Uncle Chrom! And then you ran away. Mama told me not to play spy through the door, but I saw it!”

Lucina scowls at him. “I don’t remember doing that.”

“You did! You yelled and hit the baby and then bit Uncle Chrom on the arm when he was holding you. You made Morgan cry. But you won’t do that anymore ‘cause you promised, right?”

Lucina huffs and turns away, gripping her knees again. “Right. But I still didn’t do it.”

“Then why were you crying?”

“None of your business!”

“You’re lying! Liar liar pants for hire!”

“My pants are _not_ for hire!” she shouts as she hops to her feet. “I didn’t mean to bite, okay? It just happened. And then I ran here because…” The fire leaves her eyes. Her hand itches. “Because…”

“Because you’re a big, smelly dragon that likes stinky dungeons!”

“Owain!” She lunges for him, but Owain just giggles and leaps away. “Get back here!”

“Can’t get me! I’m a knight!”

“Knights don’t run, stupid!” But he’s already sprinting towards the exit. She growls and takes off after him. “Stand and face me, craven squire!” she recites. “Or let your village be subject to my wrath!”

“Wiccan beast! Your end is near!” Owain shouts back.

“ _Wicked_ beast, you dum—er, foolish human!” But her words are drowned out by Owain’s endless giggling. Lucina scowls and quickens her pace, leaving the ivy-covered dungeon door behind her.

\--

With Owain off to bed, Lucina stalks the dim corridors of the castle alone. The adults are busy tending to matters of war, it seems, or maybe they’re still gawking at the baby. Either way, the halls are barren, save for the usual guards at each end.

She doesn’t think about Morgan anymore, or about Owain calling her castle smelly, or even about catching the fastest cat in the dungeons. She doesn’t even think about the way the guards watch her more carefully than usual. She thinks instead of her mother and of Plegia and the way Robin talks about the country as though it isn’t a bad place.

In every story she has heard about Ylisse and Plegia, it’s the Plegians who kidnap princesses and try to conquer Ylisse, yet Robin talks about feeling pride for her homeland. Lucina doesn’t know what pride is, but she guesses it must be a good feeling. She wonders just how great Plegia could be if Robin refuses to talk about it whenever Lucina asks. Maybe she’s just saying it to disagree with Chrom.

She stops walking abruptly. She’s in front of her parents’ bedroom door—or, more precisely, a few steps to the side—and she hears movement inside. She remembers her anger, and then her guilt. She remembers that she doesn’t want to see her parents ever again.

She takes a few steps back, then runs and leaps past the doorway, surely too fast for anyone to catch a glimpse.

“Lucina,” a deep voice calls. Lucina freezes on the spot. She debates whether to keep moving and pretend she didn’t hear, but Chrom speaks again. “I know you’re out there. Come in here; I promise I won’t bite.”

The soles of Lucina’s shoes scuff against the floor when she shuffles in. Chrom stands in front of Morgan’s tiny bassinet facing his daughter.

“You gave us quite a scare today,” he says. Lucina is too ashamed to look up and see his expression. “Do you know what you did?”

There is a pause. Lucina’s tears threaten to fill the silence, but she bites her lip and restrains them. She shakes her head. Chrom frowns.

“I see.” He watches her for a moment, then turns to face Morgan again. Lucina squeezes her eyes tightly shut.

“Do you believe me?”

Her voice is barely audible, so Chrom turns his head away from the baby. “What?”

She opens her eyes.

“I said… do you believe me? That I don’t… I can’t remember?”

His eyes are wide and sad when he looks at her, turning so that he only half-faces her. He opens his mouth, but thinks better of it, instead sighing and closing his eyes. Lucina wrings her dress in her hands as she watches him think. When he speaks, his voice is almost as soft as hers had been.

“I didn’t, at first,” he says. “When you pushed—when Owain fell down the stairs, I thought you were lying when you said you couldn’t remember. And when you lashed out at Morgan, I thought the same. But then I remembered something.” He looks over to Robin, who is sleeping soundly in her bed across the room. “I don’t know if she wants me to tell you this, but… your mother has done similar things. Acted strangely, and then couldn’t remember what she’s done. Apparently it was a frequent occurrence back when she lived in—” He stops. Lucina stares at him with wide eyes, silently begging him to continue, but he doesn’t. “She must have grown out of it, because I’ve never seen her do it.”

Lucina inhales sharply, caught off guard by the hope that flares in her chest. “You mean it’ll stop happening when I grow up?”

“I don’t kn—” Chrom stops mid-sentence. He’s looking at Lucina now, meeting her eager gaze with one that is full of unease. But Lucina doesn’t notice this, particularly when his eyes sharpen and he nods. “Yes. You’ll learn how to stop it. I know you can.”

Lucina feels like she’s glowing. Suddenly, she thinks she knows what pride is.

Behind Chrom, Morgan starts to mumble. The two look to see the baby shifting and fussing at nothing in particular. Chrom chuckles gently.

“I think Morgan agrees with me. They must want to meet you.”

Lucina swallows the guilt that rises from her gut. She still doesn’t want to see the baby, this time out of shame rather than disgust. But she’s tired of fighting, and her father is looking at her with such warmth that she can’t bear to let this conflict drag on any longer. She curls her fists at her sides and approaches them.  

Morgan is tiny, tinier than Lucina possibly could have been, she thinks. Their skin is dark and wrinkled like that of an old man, though at least they’re less slimy than before. They’re laying on top of a small blanket— Lucina must have walked in on Chrom attempting to wrap them up. They wear naught but a clean rag wrapped around their puny hips. Their eyes are shut tightly, but six more eyes stare back at her, positioned in twin arcs in the center of Morgan’s chest.

_You’re just like me._

She then notices the small scratch across the bridge of their nose. She locks the image away in her head along with that of Owain’s mangled arm.

“They love you, you know,” says Chrom.

Lucina looks up to see her father towering beside her. “How do you know? Babies can’t talk.”

“I just do. Look at them, they’re calmer now that you’re here.”

Lucina does as he says and watches Morgan’s miniature chest rise and fall. She wonders about what her father said, that Morgan already loves her. She doesn’t think that it’s true. And if she keeps hating and hurting them, it never will be. _I guess I can stop hating you,_ she thinks, resting her hands on the edge of the bassinet. _And then even when Mama and Papa are gone to fight in wars and things, it won’t be so bad._ She looks to the mark on her hand, a twin of the mark on Morgan’s chest. _As long as you don’t go away, too._

She feels her father ruffle her hair before moving to finish swaddling the baby. She steps out of his way and watches wordlessly, her eyes never leaving Morgan. _Because if I keep doing bad things… if Papa’s wrong about it stopping, and I hurt him again..._ Chrom covers all six eyes with the cloth and tucks it tightly.

_...you might be the only one left who won’t run away from me._

 


	4. The Heaviest Blade (Pt. 1)

Lucina sees Morgan’s lips move, but their voice drowns in the sound of blood pulsing in her ears. She sees their face contort into an odd expression, brows knit and lips pursed into a pout. She sees their hands ball around her nightwear and feels herself shake back in forth with as much force as a five-year old can muster.

“Lucina! Come _oooooon!_ Don’t you know how to wake up?”

She grumbles and pushes the child away with a hand, her restless rest lingering in her heavy eyelids. As she rubs her eyes, Morgan’s feet patter over to the window.

She keeps her eyes closed, expecting harsh light to stream through the glass panes when Morgan parts the curtains, but darkness remains. “What on—? Morgan, the sun hasn’t even risen,” she says. But Morgan doesn’t seem to hear, for they race to the door and disappear through its opening. “Morgan!” But of course, they are long gone. Lucina sighs and rises from her bed.

She leaves her room without changing from her nightwear—there’s no point when she plans on returning to bed after seeing what has Morgan so riled—and finds her sibling bouncing on their tiptoes trying to peek through one of the slit windows facing the courtyard.

“Mother and Father are home! They’re outside!” they squeak.

Lucina frowns. “You’re not fooling me again, you know. Mother and Father aren’t due back for weeks.” Though they had received a crow a fortnight prior reporting their parents’ victory against the Conqueror, Lucina knows her father will not return until he has contributed to Valm’s reconstruction, assuming local leaders permitted him.

But Morgan is adamant. “I’m not trying to trick anyone this time, honest! I wouldn’t make this up!” They fly to Lucina and tug on her sleeve. “Come on, we have to go see them!”

“Morgan, I’m not—”

She stops. There is a faint noise coming from outside. Are those… voices? At this hour? She peers through the slit alongside her sibling. Outside, guards carrying torches, usually scattered throughout the castle grounds, scurry to form two lines on either side of the portcullis covering the entrance. Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes that the soldiers have already opened the main gate.

“Lucina,” Morgan whispers, “I can’t see!”

Lucina motions for them to stand in front of her. They oblige, and she lifts them up by the armpits (they’ve gotten too big for her to carry properly) so that the two can peer through the slit with ease.

The portcullis rises with a metallic clatter that is familiar, but never more welcome to her ears. Somewhere, a soldier cries out a command. The others tilt their spears forward in response.

Morgan squirms in Lucina’s grasp. “Where are they? Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“Hush,” she says. “It’s an age-old tradition for Ylissean leaders to be welcomed like this. Especially after a victory.” _All the same,_ she thinks, _some amount of urgency would be appreciated._

She almost drops Morgan when they abruptly tense. “There they are! They’re on horses!”

Robin and Chrom lead the group with heads held high. Lucina’s heart skips a beat when she sees them. Behind them, she recognizes a few faces; Frederick follows closely, of course, as well as the rest of Chrom’s most trusted warriors.

“Oh, shoot, we should have gotten Owain and Brady out of bed, too!” says Morgan.

“I imagine Aunt Lissa will do the job for us.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t see her anywhere.”

“What? Is she not traveling near Father or Aunt Maribelle? Or Uncle Vaike?” It is difficult to see through the narrow window, but surely she must be hidden behind the other soldiers?

But Morgan shakes their head. “Nope. She’s not there.”

“Don’t be silly.” Lucina lowers Morgan to the ground. “I’m certain we will meet her amongst the others. But we won’t find her by standing here. Let’s—”

“Let’s go meet them at the door!” Morgan interrupts. “I’ll race you!”

Morgan takes off down the hall. Lucina merely snorts. “A head start isn’t enough for a victory! I’m still faster than—oh, forget it, you can’t even hear me.” She shakes her head and takes off after them, impatience fueling her swift strides.

“I know you don’t like it, but if we show him we have Gules, then they’re sure to—”

“Mother! Father!”

At the sound of Morgan’s voice, Robin and Chrom snap their attention to the child careening toward them. Chrom tugs his reins, pats his horse, and mutters, “We will discuss this later.” Robin nods and dismounts moments after him.

By the time Lucina reaches the gathering, Morgan is already enveloped in their mother’s arms.

“Welcome back,” Lucina breathes.

She expects her parents’ exhaustion, certainly, but when Chrom meets her gaze, she nearly flinches. His skin is wan, unnaturally so, and his eyes are more like stagnant pools than their usual brilliant blue. Lucina’s soaring heart drops so quickly, she nearly thinks it’s stopped.

His lips draw back into a feeble smile. “Lucina… _oof!_ ” Unable to bear his pitiful expression any longer, Lucina nearly throws herself into his arms. He hugs her tightly in return, though he holds himself somewhat crooked. He seems so much smaller compared to when she last saw him. She had grown in the time he had been gone, of course, but this is too extreme. His entire demeanor is different. He is a stranger.

She wants to ask _What has happened,_ _What is wrong, Are you injured?_ but she was so ready to be happy, so ready to go back to the way things were, she cannot summon the words she needs.

She puts on a weak grin and backs out of her father’s grasp. “We received the crow detailing your victory, but we had no idea you’d be back so soon. I’m sorry we don’t have a celebration ready for you all.”

His laugh is little more than air. “There’s no need for that. I think what everyone really wants right now is a little rest. Some time with their families.” At this, he reaches to brush a strand of hair from Lucina’s face. Finally, some warmth radiates from his eyes. “I’m so happy to see you two safe.”

Lucina looks down to her folded hands. “I am relieved as well. When I heard tales of the Conqueror’s strength, I was afraid…” She swallows hard and tries to throw the sleepless nights from her memory. Shaking her head, she forces a smile to her face once again. “The people of Ylisstol will want to celebrate your return, but I think we should have a festivity of our own, first. It could be the four of us and Aunt Lissa, Uncle Vaike, Aunt Maribelle, Owain—”

The look that silences Lucina is nearly unnoticeable, but unmistakable. He must realize it, too, for he averts his gaze as though ashamed of himself. Alarm flutters against her ribcage, and her voice is strained when she dares to speak. “Father… what is the matter?”

At first, she doesn’t think he will reply, for how long he remains silent. When he finally answers, his response is beyond her comprehension.

“What?” she asks.

His eyes return to hers at last. He repeats himself. “It’s Lissa. Lissa has been taken captive.”

\--

Even after years of study, printed words do not make complete sense to her. It takes several moments of staring to decipher what each group of characters reads. Lucina curses whoever had thought to make so many different letters appear so similar, and so closely packed. Seeing this many blocks of text on one page has almost a dizzying effect.

There is a knock at her door, and she barely stows the book under her pillow in time to feign sleep before the door creaks open. Heavy boots—familiar boots—trod into the room. She thinks for a moment that Frederick will have mercy on her, but sure enough, he draws the curtains back, allowing the sunlight to intrude. Lucina hisses at the offending light.

“Good day, milady. I see you are no less averse to mornings,” he says.

“The handmaids are much gentler than you are,” she replies, rubbing her eyes.

“There’s nothing more rousing than a room full of sunlight, I think. Though you were already awake, were you not?” He gestures to the lit candle at her bedside.

Oops. “Oh. That. Well, I… with all the excitement last night, I fear I lost any desire to sleep. Or the ability. I thought, then, that it might be a good time to do a little… reading.”

“ _The Hero-King’s Return_ again?” Frederick wagered.

“Yes. You’ve read it to me so many times, I nearly know it by heart.”

That draws a rare smile from the old knight. “It pleases me to hear that. When Lissa was a child, I read it to her often before bedtimes, just as I did for you. Unfortunately, she eventually tired of it, and demanded that I tell her a new story every night.”

Lucina laughs. It is all too easy to imagine a bossy young Lissa. “And did you?”

“I did my very best! But, alas, I am no bard. Storytelling was never a strength of mine.”

They fall silent, perhaps because they had run out of things to say, or perhaps because the humor of Frederick’s memory had run dry, only to be replaced by the melancholy of loss.

“I was too afraid to ask last night, but,” Lucina whispers, “what happened to her?”

Frederick inhales deeply and follows with a slow, somber sigh. “It pains me to admit this. Forgive me, but… I do not know. She took off to bed that night in the same manner she did every night. I saw her douse the candle in her tent myself. But when I visited her tent in the morning to wake her, she was gone. There was no ransom note, no token indicating who had taken her, nothing. We searched and searched for her, but of course she was nowhere to be found. We were forced to move on without her, though we swore to continue the search once matters were finished.

“We finally received word of her mere hours after the Conqueror’s defeat. The new king of Plegia sent a personal message that his men had found her wandering in the badlands, a whole sea and a continent away from us. He accused her of being a spy.” Frederick’s brow knits tightly, as it does when his eyes are on a target. “It’s a lie he crafted so that he may provoke and trap us. But we know better.”

He pauses to steady his breathing. Lucina knows she should pity the knight, who surely blames himself, but pushing her frustration and fear onto him, calling him careless, demanding that he fix this _at once_ , is a much more comforting impulse. She has the authority to do that, doesn’t she? She’s certain she does.

But she will not say these things. Good people don’t threaten their closest friends, so she sits very straight, very still, save for the fingers rubbing back of her hand.

“Your father would like to train with you today. You ought to dress and meet him outside the barracks,” says Frederick. Lucina realizes he’d stood up while she was lost to her thoughts. She mutters a stiff “thank you” and he excuses himself rather hastily. He must have upset himself more than he had upset her.

She knows that asking about her aunt was a mistake, that it served only to add another layer to her inner tumult of anger and anxiety. But the satisfaction of hating someone—of hating this Plegian king—is too tempting.

She pushes her blankets away and rises to her feet. At least, she reasons, she can use this energy when training with her father, as her mother had once advised.

\--

A centipede twists around a slender twig, its feelers tapping at the lid as though drumming out a code that will set it free. Morgan wonders what it feels like to have so many legs, or if it’s jealous of the butterflies for having wings, or if it would need antennae if it had as many eyes as a spider. They wonder lots of things, but whenever they take a centipede out to play with it and learn from it, they end up tearing off each of its tiny legs. It’s fun to watch it skitter away on just half of its usual limbs.

They grow bored of the show and flop onto their bedroom floor. Surrounding their vision are four walls, all decorated with scattered illustrations from their favorite books as well as various insects, mostly dragonflies, pinned in frames and glittering in the sunlight. Lucina suggested catching some butterflies, but they never had much luck catching them, either being too slow or carelessly crushing their wings in their hands.

They realize that the muffled mutterings from next door have stopped. Frederick must have left the room. Maybe Lucina is free to play, then.

They skip over to their bedroom door and peek outside. Frederick is nowhere in sight, but the guards posted outside the children’s bedrooms are as omnipresent as ever. That’s okay, though; they’re only there to stand in place, not to boss the royal youth around.

No sooner than they scuttle out of their room does Lucina emerge from her own, walking at a pace far faster than Morgan is accustomed to seeing this early in the day. “Luci!” they call.

Lucina stops and glances back at the child approaching her. “Oh. Hello, Morgan. Is there something you need?”

“Are we gonna play with Mother and Father today?”

“Yes. Er, no. That is to say…” Lucina wrings her hands. “I can’t play with you right now. Father asked to train with me. Shouldn’t you be learning phonics with your new teacher?”

“Yeah, but I already know how to read! And he spits everywhere when he talks. Can’t I just come watch you and Father?”

Lucina sighs. “Fine. But if Frederick catches you and carries you off to lessons, you cannot blame me.”

Morgan hoists their triumphant fists into the air. “Yes! I finally get to see Father fight! I bet you can beat him, Luci!”

Lucina scoffs in amusement. “It’s not about winning, Morgan.” She turns and starts to walk away, Morgan following closely at her heels. “But thank you.”

\--

Frederick is there, after all, but he must be feeling generous, for he allows Morgan to remain.

He tells Lucina what to fix, and she fixes it. He tells Chrom what to fix, and he says, “I know.”

They’re only using practice blades, but they clash as loudly as an entire battlefield. At least, Morgan thinks so. Every swordfight seems an epic battle to them.

But the reality is that Lucina is only nine years old, and this is only a sparring match, and her father is only testing her. Still, her resolve is such that she fights as though death himself stands behind her.

Chrom holds up an open palm. “Good. Very good. I’m glad my old teacher works you as hard as she did for me.” He then adds, “Not too hard, I hope.”

“Not at all,” she pants. “Thank you, Father.”

“I’m willing to go one more round, if you’re not too tired. What do you say?”

“Of course!”

Chrom smiles. “Good. Let’s take a moment first, though.”

The two go to drink from water flasks, but Morgan remains in the shade. They sit cross-legged, using a stick to draw ridges in the dirt to pester the ants. They do not, however, pay attention to the insects much, their thoughts turning to their mother. Morgan had searched for her this morning before Lucina had awoken, but she was nowhere to be found. None of the handmaids would tell them where she was, saying that she was tired and needed to rest. Disappointed, they had gone back to their room to pout.

Morgan did not know much about their mother. Their parents had gone to war a year and a half ago—and even before then, the two often left for weeks, if not months at a time to attend to their forces in who-knows-where. If Morgan were any older they might feel resentful, but mostly they desperately wanted to cling to their mother and wrap themselves in her warmth and scent at any chance they could get. It was strange to think that, starting today, the opportunity would be there for the rest of their life. Neither Morgan nor Lucina had ever really known what “peacetime” was.

A shout of pain jars Morgan from their thoughts. When they look back to the training ground, they see Chrom supporting himself against a weapon rack, one hand clutching above his hip. Lucina stands wide-eyed with her sword hanging uselessly at her side.

“I’m sorry,” he grunts, “it’s just a war-wound acting up again. It’s not your fault. Lucina, it’s not your fault.”

But Lucina won’t stop staring at the growing bloodstain at his waist.

Frederick is frantic. “Milord, you should have told me you were injured. I would have trained the princess in your stead.” His scowl deepens when he sees just how bad the damage is. “Why didn’t you see a healer for this?”

“Other people needed it more. This is nothing,” Chrom nearly snaps.

“Other people are not the Exalt of Ylisse.”

“I’m not the Exalt. Not yet.”

“When we return from Plegia, you will be.”

“Plegia?”

Lucina’s voice is small and distant. Frederick stares at her. Her father cannot.

“Yes, Lucina,” Chrom says, “we’re leaving for Plegia tomorrow. I’m… I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before, but—”

“But,” she flounders, “but, you just—you only just returned! You can’t leave so soon!” Her knuckles are pale, the skin stretched over clenched fists.

“They have Lissa, Lucina. We can’t just leave her there.”

“You… you mustn’t…”

“Come, milord,” says Frederick, “we can’t ignore that wound any longer, and a shortage of healers is no excuse here.”

Chrom grumbled. “Fine, fine. I’ll go see if Maribelle is—”

A sharp _CLANG_ makes Morgan jump. However, the noise does not frighten them as much as its source.

\--

Lucina is not herself.

She feels the force of the strike far longer than is natural. The vibration of her sword, still shuddering against Frederick’s steady blade, rattles through her arm and deep into her chest, where roiling fury seems to fill the space and grip her heart.

Beyond Frederick, her father reaches out to her, says something to her, but the words wilt as they reach her ears. His eyes are wide with something like fear, or maybe sadness. He wants her to know that it’s okay. She wants him to be dead.

“Luci!” a voice shouts. Lucina does not see it, but Morgan has jumped to their feet and is watching with keen interest.

“Forgive me, milady,” Frederick says, his voice as chilled as ice, “but the next time you attempt to strike milord will not go unpunished.”

Lucina’s eyelids flutter as though she is waking from a dream. She looks to Frederick, then to her father, then to her sword still pressed against the knight’s. Her rage breaks. _Oh, gods,_ she thinks, _oh gods, no,_ and that is all she can think as her blade falls to the earth with a dull _thump._ Chrom tries to speak to her again, but the moment he opens his mouth a sharp pain drums through her skull.

Air abandons her. She gasps to get it back, but it is nowhere near enough. She is filled with a desperate need to escape, so her legs start to move, though she pays little mind to where they carry her. At some point her feet leave the soft, grassy turf behind and fall instead on stone floors.

Everything is wrong. She had been so prepared to finally be a family, but here she is expected to say goodbye again. And, gods, that blood. The sight and smell of it fill her thoughts, send thrills across her skin. She wants to see more of it. She wants its heavy, sweet scent to flood her senses, to watch it fall and stain the earth.

She remembers the squeal of the rats as she drove her knife into them. She thinks about her father’s thick neck splitting open and—

No, no, she doesn’t. She doesn’t think about any of this. She thinks about how her father is only doing his duty to his family and the halidom, and how he will be back before she even realizes he is gone. It’s only a diplomacy mission, right? Plegia doesn’t have the troops to start another war.

_If you imagine such horrible things again_ , she thinks, _father will die._

She chews on her lip. With each jarring step, her teeth cut into her skin. It’s a suitable punishment for now, she thinks.

She doesn’t know how long she runs. She only realizes she’s stopped when she feels cloaked arms wrap around her, followed by hands on her cheeks.

“—do you hear me? Lucina, listen to me. Nod if you understand me.”

Her lip throbs. She nods dumbly.

“Oh, Lucina…” Her mother hugs her again. Lucina relents and buries her face into the crook of her mother’s neck.

If Lucina is grateful for one thing, it is that Robin knows when to ask questions and when to remain a silent pillar of support. She keeps her motherly concern at a distance now, offering herself as a source of catharsis as her daughter’s tears bleed into her shoulder.

But the question must come eventually. When Lucina’s sobs finally relax into a weak shudder, Robin speaks.

“Do you know what happened?” she asks softly.

Lucina pulls away from Robin’s arms and wipes her eyes with her wrist. “I didn’t mean to, but I… I think I tried to…” She swallows, her words lodged in her throat.

“It’s all right,” Robin says. Her hand strokes Lucina’s hair. “Everyone is okay. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

Lucina takes a deep breath. She wants her mother’s words to comfort her, but she cannot help but think of the fear in her father’s eyes.

“I—I have… these thoughts…” She speaks without thinking. She had never wanted to put any of this into words, but here she is, spilling her deepest shame with a quivering voice. Her hand burns to be scratched, but her fingers are busy curling around Robin’s coat.

“When I get angry—and sometimes, even when I’m not—I think about… about hurting people, and I—” She chokes on the remainder of her words. She must pause to gather herself. “I don’t want to think about it—I try so, so hard not to, but I can’t… I can’t help it.”

“Gods,” Robin breathes. “Lucina, I… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The way her voice breaks at the end suggests tears. Lucina feels them well anew in her eyes, too, and so presses her face into her mother’s cloak again.

“Lucina,” her mother says, her voice somewhat stronger, “I understand what you are feeling, and I promise you,” she pauses to take a steadying breath, “no matter what happens in the next few weeks, things will get better for us. After this final mission, everything will be set right.”

More than anything, Lucina wants to believe her, but she cannot help but feel profound unease at her words.

Gods know, however, that she is too exhausted to argue. She steps away from Robin and wipes her sniveling nose with her wrist. “Okay,” she says, her eyes dull.

“Hey.” Robin tilts her daughter’s chin upwards and smiles at her. “This will all be over in no time. Maybe even sooner than that,” she said with a wink.

Despite herself, Lucina smiles weakly. “Nobody can go back in time.”

“I think you’ll find that you can do a lot of things if you put your mind to it.” Robin chuckles and runs a hand through Lucina’s hair. “Will you be all right?”

Lucina’s eyes burn and her head aches, but at last she can finally breathe. “I don’t know. I feel a little better, at least.” Her voice becomes small. “Still, I’m… I’m afraid, mother.”

Robin’s expression is apologetic. “I know, sweetheart.” She draws Lucina into her arms again. “I know.”

 

After she excuses herself from her mother, Lucina stays in her room for the remainder of the day. Morgan pounds on her door from time to time, but she makes no motion to answer them.

She could say that she avoids her father for fear that he is angry with her, but she is fully aware that he feels no such frustration. Instead, it is her own cowardice that locks her away.

That, and the scent of his blood that lingers in her mind.

“I have to get better at this,” she mutters aloud. She paces, her bare footfalls silent on soft carpet. “I cannot think such thoughts any more. People will be hurt if I do.” _Father will be hurt if I do,_ she thinks.

An image of her blade buried into her father’s side flies into her head. Her jaw sets. _Distract yourself,_ she thinks. She scores her nails hard against her hand.

She winces at the stinging pain, but it works. She releases a sigh.

“I _will_ get better at this.” She has to if she keeps telling herself that, right?

Somehow, they still feel like empty words, but they are all she has.

Her stomach growls; having isolated herself through lunch, her words aren’t the only things that are empty. She would like to skip dinner as well, but as a growing child, the starvation is agony.

She relents and visits the kitchen, snatching an apple and half a loaf of bread from the stores. Being out and about feels better than she expected, so she decides to take the long way back to her room.

The night is crisp and cool, a welcome change from her stale quarters. She regrets not taking the time to play with Morgan at all; the afternoon must have been beautiful.

She nears the hallway down which she knows Brady, Owain, and their parents are staying. It isn’t too late to visit yet, but she can only imagine how morose the atmosphere is with one member of their family missing.

Lucina passes the hallway entirely. She can’t stand to feel the sting of Lissa’s absence.

Hoping to distract herself from such melancholy thoughts, she peers through the nearest window. She sees the lesser traveled section of the courtyard, where vegetation has grown out of control in parts. The disused dungeon is still there, the door to which is still covered in ivy, inaccessible. She feels an odd pang of both nostalgia in relief at the sight. Though it had once been a place of respite during her worst tantrums and fits, she can no longer enter; only a toddler could fit through the small gap through the door, and she hasn’t the strength to pry it free of its rusted hinges.

She supposes it is for the best. She finishes her apple and tosses the core to the courtyard below.

She’s about to start gnawing at the bread when she hears voices growing in volume. She is approaching the war room, she realizes, where her parents discuss strategy. Instead of Robin’s voice, however, she hears two men. Curious, she creeps along the wall and approaches the entrance.

There are guards stationed outside the room, so Lucina hides behind a nearby sculpture of a past Exalt. Luckily, the discussion within is heated enough that she can hear it through the cracked door.

“I only mean to say that we must take precautions. If milord falls to these Plegians, then we are without any means to wield Falchion. If the Plegian king has the Fire Emblem, I’ve a feeling the halidom needs Naga’s power more than ever.”

Lucina recognizes Frederick’s voice. He must be talking to her father.

Sure enough, Chrom speaks. “I told you, I will not fall. Not while they have Lissa.”

“But milord, there is always the possibility—”

“—and if I _do_ fall, there are others who may take Falchion up in my place,” says Chrom. “But I would never want Lucina or Morgan to fight where I’ve fallen. All the more reason for me to succeed.”

“Milord, I…” Frederick’s voice becomes very low, so Lucina must strain her ears to hear. “Do you really believe Falchion will deem Lucina worthy?”

Silence. There is a tension that crackles even through the stone walls separating the men from their eavesdropper. Lucina’s heart drops.

“You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.” Chrom’s statement is laced with a threat.

“I do not suggest it out of malice. I am merely concerned that,” Frederick pauses, choosing his words carefully, “she… may not be able to uphold Ylisse’s values, let alone those of Falchion. She is emotional, unstable. True, she has improved somewhat over the years, but how long can she bottle her anger so?”

Chrom does not respond.

“She will be an adolescent in a few years. Her emotions will be more volatile than ever. If she lashes out then, it won’t be as a harmless child. She will be strong enough to kill someone.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Sire, she attempted to strike you down just today!”

“I said, that won’t happen.”

“Milord,” says Frederick, the clinking of his armor suggesting movement, “you did not see what I saw. There was such hatred in her eyes. That is _not_ what Ylisse stands for. Falchion will not accept her.”

“And _you_ don’t know my daughter better than I do!” Chrom roars. “She may have a hard time keeping her behavior in check, but I have seen vast improvement as she’s grown. I know that she will never stop trying to do good by others no matter how much she struggles. She knows in her heart what is right, and _that_ is what Falchion will see!”

Silence again. Lucina’s breath is frozen in her throat. Her eyes burn with unshed tears.

“I am sorry,” says Frederick. “I spoke well out of turn. It is not my place to make such accusations.”

More silence.

“I love Morgan and Lucina just as I do you and your sisters. You know how I worry,” he continues.

“Frederick, if I… if I do fall, if Robin and I can’t come home, please… protect them from whatever dangers my failure brings.”

“With my life, milord.”

“Thank you,” Chrom breathes. Or at least, that’s what Lucina thinks she hears. From then on, whatever remains of the conversation is too soft to hear.

She releases a sharp breath and slumps against the statue’s pedestal.

Her father believes in her. He thinks she is a good person. He doesn’t see her as a danger, as an unstable, disturbed child. She had swung her blade at him mere hours ago, yet he thinks she could stand as an Exalt, as a symbol of peace.

It’s so bittersweet, so unreachable, but it’s a hope she can cling to—the hope that some day, she can prove her father’s words true.

For the first time in as long as Lucina can remember, the tears in her eyes are those of joy.


End file.
